


Life in Plastic

by elicitillicit



Series: Assorted Drabbles and Shorts [12]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, cooking contest AU, minerva bamf mcgonagall tbh, producer!Tom and Minerva, tomerva
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-24 00:08:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4897588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elicitillicit/pseuds/elicitillicit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d spent all of three weeks binge-watching all the seasons and iterations of Masterchef (including the one with the children – and he’d briefly considered kidnapping one of them to hide in his kitchen). He sent emails to the rudest judges out there to please come visit the set because – let’s face it – he’s always down to see someone cry. Viewers love shit that they can gif, and ugly crying faces gif especially well. He picked the biggest assholes for contestants during auditions because he just wants to watch the world burn like an exceedingly alcoholic Baked Alaska.</p>
<p>And then, his bosses saddled him with fucking Scottish Oprah for his co-producer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life in Plastic

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the rarepairsnetwork Reality Cooking Contest AU challenge.

Tom Riddle is not a religious man.

Sure, he’d spent much of first grade fervently praying that the idiots in his dorm would just leave him the fuck alone before realising that terrifying them into submission would solve all his problems. In general, though, Tom Riddle is a fervent believer in the church of Thine Ownself.

He finds himself incapable of being kind to his ridiculously stupid neighbours. He scoffs at creationism. He never passes up an opportunity to use the Lord’s name in vain.

Yet, he finds himself able and willing to walk into a church to beg a priest to intercede on his behalf to rid his life of Minerva McGonagall. Unfortunately, he gets the feeling that the priest would probably sympathise with Saint Minerva herself, so he doesn’t bother. 

He does, however, spend too much time trying to submit task proposals without her knowledge for this _bitching_ new reality cooking show that his network has lined up.

To be completely honest, Tom is _super psyched._ He’d spent all of three weeks binge-watching _all_ the seasons and iterations of _Masterchef_ (including the one with the children – and he’d briefly considered kidnapping one of them to hide in his kitchen).He sent emails to the rudest judges out there to _please come visit the set_ because – let’s face it – he’s always down to see someone cry. Viewers love shit that they can gif, and ugly crying faces gif _especially_ well. He picked the biggest assholes for contestants during auditions because he just wants to watch the world burn like an exceedingly alcoholic Baked Alaska.

And then, his bosses saddled him with fucking _Scottish Oprah_ for his co-producer.

Don’t get him wrong; he _loves_ Oprah. Anyone who earns that much money can continue to do her thing without any form of judgment or criticism from him. But this isn’t a show that sets out to tug at heartstrings. This is a reality TV show that has to have a _winner_ , and for there to be winners, there have to be _losers_.

But, McGonagall is _all_ about the whole “we’re all winners here” mentality, and it’s _seriously_ starting to piss him off.

* * *

 

He’s already grumpy because the network vetoed his suggestion to send the contestants out onto a deserted island and have them hunt, capture, and cook monitor lizards, citing astronomical insurance premiums. McGonagall sweeping into his office and slamming the door shut does not improve his mood. 

She unceremoniously heaves a stack of loose proposal submissions at him (they scatter limply all over his hardwood floor) and ignores his grunt of disgust, launching right into her monologue.

“You are _ridiculously irresponsible_ and a _horrible_ excuse for a human being-”

Tom sighs and sits back in his chair. It creaks ominously, and he makes a mental note to tell Rosier to get him a new one. Leather. Not from Ikea.

“- don’t even know where you would _get_ whale meat; it’s _so unethical-_ ” 

He smugly considers his Japanese science-lab contacts while eyeing her covertly beneath lowered lashes. She’s in a button-down and a pair of slacks, as per usual, but her shirt is clearly store-bought and therefore ill fitting, so he’s got a view of the side of her breast through a gap between the buttons.

“- and the _pufferfish_ , like _what_ ; if they make _one mistake,_ that’s _lethally poisonous-_ ”

Her bra is beige. Typical. The bit of visible cleavage on display is pretty nice, though.

“- would kill one of the judges, and I don’t think that even _Winky_ could drink enough alcohol to kill all the bacteria in that-”

He’s taken to imagining McGonagall without clothes on in order to pass the time, since she comes in to yell at him so often. That probably violates some employee sexual-harassment code, but Tom is completely aware that he’s what most people would call _scum_ , so he doesn’t give a shit.

“- you would, essentially, be _unfairly_ stacking the deck against amateur cooks _-_ ”

He wonders idly if she actually could kill him if she knew that he was objectifying her.

“- need to _involve_ me in the decision-making process-” 

Maybe he could float an idea for a challenge where the contestants have to make sushi plated on the bodies of their biggest rivals in the competition?

He only registers that he’s said this out loud when McGonagall’s mouth snaps shut and her eyebrows rise halfway up her forehead while her _stupid_ wire-framed glasses slide a fraction of an inch down her nose. The overall effect is so disapproving that he has a serious Catholic school flashback.

Tom looks her over, quirks a corner of his lips up, and clarifies: “ _Bare_ bodies.”

She throws her hands up in the universal gesture for _what the actual fuck_ before smacking a palm onto the top of his desk. “How did you even _come up_ with that?”

He shrugs, leans forwards, and looks her straight in the eyes. “I was thinking about _you_ naked.”

He’s prepared for her to blanch, slap him, or run out shrieking about the patriarchy.

He’s _very_ confused when she smirks, grabs his face, and kisses him, instead.

Her lips are soft and she tastes like spearmint and he’s so taken aback that he forgets that she’s annoyingly moral and proceeds to kiss her back.

When she pulls away a couple of seconds later, completely calm despite her flushed cheeks, he’s certain that he looks like a bewildered idiot because his mouth is hanging open and he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be doing with his hands. He’s gaping and he knows it’s unattractive, but you know what’s _really_ attractive? That triumphant gleam in her eyes as she laughs in his face.

Wait, _what_?

“You’ll have to do better to shock _me_ , Tom Riddle.” She adjusts her glasses and he’s mesmerised by the curve of her smile. “Stop cutting me out of the loop and try to grow a soul.”

Then she whips around and strides over to the door, throwing it open and disappearing into the cacophony of the rest of their floor.

He isn’t imagining the swing in her hips. 

He stares after her for a moment longer before remembering that she’d littered his office with the sixty-two proposals that he’d shunted past her over the past two months.

_Jesus-fucking-Christ._


End file.
